


making this up as i go

by shinelikestars



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anxiety Disorder, F/F, F/M, Genderbending, Suicidal Thoughts, Teen Pregnancy, connor and evan are parents, girl!evan, pure!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-19 20:35:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11321226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinelikestars/pseuds/shinelikestars
Summary: a series of oneshots set in a purer version of the universe of "any good days". aka the one where evan and connor are teen parents just trying to figure things out as they go and do the best they can for their son.





	1. one (september 2017)

**Author's Note:**

> and here comes pure!au! if you haven't read my story "any good days" first, then i'd recommend you go and read that before starting this -- certain details in here might not make sense to you otherwise.
> 
> this will be a series of oneshots, but they may not be in chronological order, which is why i'm including the dates (month and year) at the beginning of every one.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!  
> xo,  
> L

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here comes pure!au! if you haven't read my story "any good days" first, then i'd recommend you go and read that before starting this -- certain details in here might not make sense to you otherwise.
> 
> this will be a series of oneshots, but they may not be in chronological order, which is why i'm including the dates (month and year) at the beginning of every one.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!  
> xo,  
> L

_one._

september 2017

Connor  doesn’t get it at first.

 

He freezes, stops dead in his tracks, Evan flinching as the squeak of his combat boot skidding against the tiled floor reverberates throughout the hallway.

 

“Pregnant?” he repeats, voice low and shaky. He’s still got his back to her, but Evan can see the way his shoulders rise and fall as he sucks in a deep breath.

 

“Yes,” she nods, having to fight the stream of words that want to tumble past her lips. “Yes, Connor, I think I’m pregnant, and it’d have to be yours because you’re the only person that I’ve ever, um —”

 

“Oh. So you’re not sure yet.” 

 

“Well, I mean I haven’t taken a test yet, but I’m like 99% sure —”

 

Connor exhales loudly, and Evan catches herself staring at his hands, which are both balled into fists. Her stupid letter is crumpled in one of them; she can see the white of the paper peeking out from between his fingers. It’s a testament to Connor’s paleness that his skin and the letter are almost the same hue.

 

“I could take a test,” she offers meekly. If this had been their situation a couple months ago, if they’d met in maybe March instead of June, if she hadn’t fucked everything up back in August, she’d try to sound a little more certain, but — Well. With the way her and Connor’s relationship has been lately, Evan doesn’t know how to be anything but meek and shaky and uncertain around him. She’s honestly just grateful he hasn’t run off yet. Even if he’d tried to a couple minutes ago.

 

She can hear him inhale sharply, one hand uncurling and flying up to pinch at the bridge of his nose — a dead giveaway that he’s trying to control his irritation or anger or whatever the fuck emotion this is — before he turns back to face her. He’s still got the letter clutched in one hand.

 

“Okay. Um. We’re going to drive to CVS and get a test. On the way there, you’re going to attempt to explain this bullshit of a letter. Zoe’s got band practice till 4 and my mom’s at Pilates, so we’ll go back to my house and you’ll take the test. And then, I guess, we’ll go from there.” Connor speaks slowly and quietly, like he’s choosing every word cautiously, and some of the tension in Evan’s chest dissipates, because this is _so_ much better than the blind rage she’d been dealing with back in the computer lab.

 

“Okay,” she says softly.

 

And so that’s how she ends up in the passenger seat of Connor Murphy’s sedan for the first time in a month.

 

∞

“That’s a positive,” Connor whispers, staring down at the little white stick carefully balanced on his bathroom counter. A wave of nausea rolls through Evan’s stomach, and she does her best not to burst into tears right then and there. “Shit.” 

 

“Sorry,” she sniffles, unable to tear her eyes away from the twin pink lines. “I—I should’ve known better, this is all my fault, I’m so dumb—”

 

“Evan, stop.” Connor’s hands are on her shoulders in seconds, squeezing gently, a comforting gesture that she’s missed over the past four weeks. “It took two of us to do this, okay? We’ll figure something out. Just take a second to breathe, you can take another test if you want, just to be sure, and then we’ll talk about it.” He pauses, then adds, “But don’t blame yourself. If I remember correctly, I’m the dumbass who pulled a condom out of a wallet, anyway.” 

 

She laughs in spite of her tears, grabs another test from the box, and shoos him out of the bathroom.

 

And, even with their dire current situation, Evan catches a glimpse of a smile as she looks in the mirror.

 

Cuz she and Connor just had a semi-normal moment. 

 

So maybe they’ll be okay. And maybe this will be okay, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this first oneshot is meant to be what, in this universe, would've happened if, instead of allowing connor to leave after he read her letter to herself, evan blurted out to him that she was pregnant to try to stop him from running off.
> 
> comments and feedback are much appreciated! 
> 
> thanks for reading.
> 
> xo,  
> L


	2. two (march 2018)

_two._

march 2018

Evan shoots off one last text, then drops her phone against a sofa cushion, sighing heavily. She and Connor have been good lately, maybe even great, but of course she shouldn’t have expected perfection. Maybe she’s asking too much of him. Maybe she should just shut up and — 

 

No, she reminds herself. Zoe would tell her she’s being completely rational. It’s her freaking _birthday_ , she’s not wrong to expect her boyfriend and the father of her child to at least just come watch some Netflix on the couch with her. It’s not like she can really do anything fun, anyway — she’s almost six months pregnant and is still on bedrest, courtesy of Dr. Tillman’s orders. She hasn’t even been allowed to go to school since January.

 

Connor was supposed to come over at four, but then he’d had a big fight with Larry over God knows what and had been forced to push back their movie date to six-thirty. Now, it’s five minutes till seven, and Evan’s getting just a little irritated (and more than a little anxious — what if he’s finally realized that she’s not good enough for him, that she’s worthless and he’s worth everything?). She’s sent him five texts in a row, the max amount deemed acceptable by Jared, and hasn’t received a response, or even a _Read_ receipt (she’s still getting used to those — Cynthia had insisted on buying her an iPhone last week after she couldn’t get in touch with her for an entire day when her crappy off-brand phone had broken for the millionth time). She wonders if she should text Zoe — but no, she doesn’t want to get Connor in trouble.

 

Evan feels kind of stupid, actually. She’d dressed up to the best of her abilities, curled her hair with the old curling iron she’s used maybe twice in the past five years, exchanged her stained T-shirt and baggy sweatpants for a colorful peasant blouse she’d found with Zoe at Target and the nicest maternity jeans she owns. She’d even put on a bit of makeup, some mascara and concealer she’d dredged up from the back of her bathroom drawer. She felt pretty, for once, but now that mascara is in imminent danger of being ruined as it dawns on her that Connor’s probably not coming.

 

She’s just risen from the couch, mentally prepared to head upstairs and put her hair in the messiest bun she can manage, when she hears the doorbell ring. Evan’s heart flutters with hope, a tiny grin forming on her features, but she forces herself to tamp down on it — what if she opens the door and it’s just the next-door neighbor, asking for some flour again?

 

Thankfully, Evan opens the door to find her favorite person standing there, _not_ the next-door neighbor. “Change of plans,” he says, the first time she’s ever heard him sound even slightly sheepish. “Come back to my place?”

 

Last time Connor suggested that, it earned her nine months of misery, but since that can’t exactly happen again, Evan grabs her phone, locks the door behind her, and follows her boyfriend to his car.

 

∞

They walk into the Murphy house, and the first thing Evan notices is that all the lights are dimmed. _“Mood lighting_ ,” Jared would call it. There’s candles of various shapes and sizes artfully arranged everywhere, and Evan smiles at the sight of them as Connor pauses to drop his keys into the bowl by the door. His hand brushes against hers, and their fingers intertwine, Connor stepping forward to lead her into the massive living room. 

 

And, wow. Something’s definitely different. Because instead of the sprawling leather sofa and probably-priceless glass coffee table that Evan has become so accustomed to seeing, there’s a giant blanket fort taking up the majority of the living room. Evan suddenly understands the need for the mood lighting as they step closer and the string lights hung around the fort come into view.

 

Her breath catches, and Connor gives her hand a squeeze. “Just wait,” he whispers, shooting her a small smile as they reach the fort. He darts in front of her to part the blankets, clearing an entryway for her, and Evan can’t help but giggle as her increasingly-pregnant self _just_ manages to fit inside the fort. 

 

Her giggle is replaced with a gasp of awe as she spots Connor’s laptop (a fancy kind with a Retina display, the only slightly-showy thing he owns, perfect for optimum binge-watching) set up at the front of the fort, Netflix already up on the screen. Next to the laptop, a small, admittedly lumpy cake sits, adorned with vibrant blue icing, _“Happy Birthday, Evan!”_ scrawled across it in white, loopy handwriting that Evan knows is definitely not Connor’s.

 

Connor helps her get situated, then plops down next to her, long legs almost in danger of sticking out of the fort. He grins when he realizes she’s staring at the cake. “Yeah, I know I told you I got in a fight with Larry and that’s why I couldn’t make it on time, but I was really just trying to bake this damn cake,” he says, laughing but also clearly nervous as he anticipates her reaction. “I burned the first one, so Zoe took pity on me and helped out the second time around. It’s still kind of fucked-up, so I’m sorry about that, but I didn’t want to make you wait all night — ”

 

“No, Connor,” Evan breaks in, “it’s perfect. _This_ is perfect. Thank you. I — I seriously don’t even know what to say.” She’s getting emotional, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, and she wants to blame it on the pregnancy hormones, but really she knows it’s because of Connor. Because he _cares_ and he did _this_ , all of this, for her. Her mom’s too busy with work, hasn’t been able to throw her a party (not like she’d want one) or celebrate with her since her dad left, and she and Jared haven’t been close enough to spend the day together in a long while, so this is the first time in a long time that anyone’s done something like this for her.

 

It’s amazing. _He’s_ amazing. 

 

“C’mon, what do you wanna watch first — _Kimmy Schmidt_ or _Sense8_? I figured we couldn’t go wrong with our old classics,” Connor says, leaning forward to mess with the laptop. 

 

And Evan just smiles, because in that moment, two things become incredibly clear to her.

 

One: This is a birthday she’ll never forget.

 

And two: This baby will have a great father.

 

No, scratch that. Not just a great father.

 

The best.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay for connor and zoe scheming together to give evan an awesome birthday (and yes, in case you're wondering, zoe totally took off for the night to give connor and evan some alone time -- she for sure used it as a great excuse to chill w alana)
> 
> didn't mention this in the chapter but jared gave connor the idea for mood lighting
> 
> and connor and evan definitely deserve a night together on her birthday, but rest assured, the glorious evan-jared-zoe friendship is not forgotten -- they throw her an amazing little surprise party (just them and connor) that saturday (evan's bday is march 5, which is a monday that year yes i checked the calendar, reason #552 why heidi couldn't get off work, and which is why jared and zoe decided to throw the party on a saturday when they could all get away with staying up late -- connor is trying to give a shit about school so he can get his diploma and get a job to provide for his lil family, but he decides that ev's birthday is one occasion when he can not give a shit)
> 
> i love y'all! thanks for the support <3 means the world to me
> 
> xo,  
> L


	3. three (february 2034)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: LOTS of talk of depression, please don't read if you think this will trigger you! your mental health isn't worth it and i care more about you being okay than you reading a silly little oneshot.
> 
> also, eliot's fifteen-going-on-sixteen in this (he's about three months from sixteen), connor's 34ish, evan's 33ish-going-on-34ish.

_three._

february 2034

Connor  is worried.

 

To be more exact, he’s worried about Eliot. Worried because he sees himself in his son, and while that’s normally something a father would smile at, in this case, he’s seeing a little too _much_ of himself, a part of himself he’d never wish on his child. 

 

He thinks Eliot is depressed. 

 

He’s seen all the signs, some the very same ones that he used to exhibit, some ones that he’s just read about online. Eliot sleeps as much as he can, usually won’t get up till one o’clock on the weekends and disappears into his room for the night around seven or eight. He lashes out, talks back to his mother in a way that makes Connor’s blood want to boil (but he can’t get angry at him, not when he knows the reason for his son’s behavior). He loses interest in the things that used to make him so happy, doesn’t even raise a brow at the thought of missing a Saturday breakfast with Larry or a trip to Gamestop with Jared — two prospects that would’ve brought him close to tears a year ago. And, most frighteningly of all, he loses weight, stops scarfing down those morning bagels he used to love, barely even touches his dinner. Eliot’s only been like this for a couple months at most, but Connor already can see the physical effects, swears his skin looks like it’s stretched too tight over his body, fragile bones pressing insistently against it. One Friday morning, he’d given his son a hug before seeing him off to school, and he’d felt the vertebrae in his back through his T-shirt. Eliot’s always been a skinny kid, tall and lanky like his dad, but _this_ — this is different. 

 

And of course it makes sense, genetically and all, why _wouldn’t_ his kid have some sort of mental illness, he’s Connor’s son — but it still hurts to think about. It scares him, if he’s honest, to imagine Eliot feeling even a tenth of the way he felt at his age. It scares him to imagine what might be hiding under Eliot’s hoodie sleeves. It scares him to imagine getting to a point where he can count on one hand the number of smiles he’s seen from his son in a week. It scares him to imagine that this ugly, awful disease might get its claws into his son and never let go. It fucking _scares him_.

 

He knows that Evan will worry, but when they got married so many years ago, they’d vowed to never lie to each other. Honesty and open communication has become the basis of their relationship, the stable foundation on which it’s been built, and Connor can’t betray that. It’s too important. 

 

So in spite of the tightness it provokes in his chest, Connor tells her on a Sunday morning, when Eliot’s still in bed (of course) and Evan’s seated at the kitchen table, sipping on some orange juice while she texts furiously with Zoe and Alana about plans for a girls’ night out in the near future. Connor makes the mistake of attempting to pour some mix into the waffle iron as he does so, but when he hears Evan’s breath hitch at his confession, his hand slips, and he ends up burning himself on the iron.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears, container of waffle mix clattering to the floor (it’s plastic, thank God) as he rushes to the sink to pour cold water on the wound. In the back of his mind, he hopes that he hasn’t woken Eliot up as Evan hurries to his side and starts to tend to his injured hand. 

 

And somehow, in the course of Evan gently rubbing Neosporin into his hand, Connor starts to cry. 

 

Without him even having to explain the reason why, Evan understands. “It’s okay, baby,” she whispers, setting aside the ointment and reaching up to give him a kiss on the cheek. The tension in Connor’s shoulders uncoils instantly at his wife’s touch. “Eliot’s gonna be fine,” Evan continues, stepping in front of him to grab a new container from the cupboard for the rest of the waffle mix. Connor lets out a choked sob at her words, and Evan turns to him, cupping his face with shaking hands, the only real sign of how much the idea of their son’s suffering has bothered her, too. 

 

“We’ll get him help,” she promises, kissing him softly. “He’ll be okay. He’ll be _happy_. He just needs to know someone’s there.”

 

And suddenly, Connor gets an idea.

 

∞

He takes a week to plan it out, does all the research and reads all the information out there, sketches it out in his mind (he _is_ an artist, after all) until he’s got what he wants to say down pat. Connor decides to do it on a Monday, eight days after confessing his suspicions to Evan. He convinces his wife to call the school that morning and tell them Eliot won’t be coming in today (it doesn’t take that much cajoling, since they’ve been discussing Connor’s plans for the past week), then sends her off to work with a kiss and the promise of a home-cooked meal for dinner that night. He makes a _mean_ eggplant parmesan.

 

Connor lets Eliot sleep in until ten, when the cinnamon rolls that the kid’s always adored have been cooling for a good five minutes and Eliot’s decidedly gotten a full twelve hours of sleep. Then he trudges upstairs, carefully opening the door to Eliot’s room, heart aching just a bit at the sight of his sketches tacked up on the wall. He’s done a portrait of Eliot every year since he was born, the most recent one being from his fifteenth birthday last May, and they’ve gradually improved with time as Connor’s grown as an artist. A small part of him willingly admits that he’s beyond relieved to find that Eliot hasn’t torn down the sketches yet. Connor knows he would’ve been humiliated by them at Eliot’s age, but he’s so glad his son still seemingly loves the drawings.

 

He can’t help but smile to himself when he spots Eliot, curled up in his bed and snoring away, dark brown curls spread across his pillow like a halo, the button nose that Connor’s mom swears comes from her side of the family twitching a little in his sleep. Glimpses of the little boy he raised flash through Connor’s mind, memories of Daddy & Me art classes, sun-drenched afternoons at Ellison State Park, pancake breakfasts and Little League baseball games with Larry in the stands. Eliot is on the brink of adulthood, just two short years from leaving them to begin a whole new chapter of his life, but he’ll always be Connor’s little guy to him. Nothing can take that away.

 

He prods his son gently on the shoulder, holding back a laugh when Eliot blinks a couple times and mumbles, “Shit, I think I should be at school right now.” Connor tells him not to worry about it, instructs him to get dressed and meet him downstairs, then leaves to finish preparing their breakfast.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Eliot’s eyeing him warily from across the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate (cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate — yes, Connor knows Heidi would have his head for the calorie-laden meal, but it’s the one meal that’s never failed to comfort his son), feet tapping an anxious beat against the wood floor (and God, he might look like Connor, but he is every inch his mother in personality). 

 

“This is gonna sound like the dumbest question ever, so don’t judge me too much for this,” Connor begins, leaning forward to meet his son’s eyes, “but — how’ve you been feeling?”

 

Eliot scoffs, gaze trained on some imaginary spot on the ceiling, and Connor tries to ignore the stab in his chest at that. He likes to think that he and Eliot have a pretty good relationship, that he’s raised him to know he can come to his dad with anything (though he had left the awkward sex talks to Evan and Heidi), but he knows how hard it can be to talk about mental health. Failed encounters with girls and funny YouTube videos are easy to laugh over together, but this is a more difficult conversation to have by far.

 

After a brief stretch of silence, Eliot finally looks back at his dad, Connor’s stomach twisting at the raw pain written all over his son’s face. “I dunno, I’ve been pretty down, I guess,” Eliot mumbles, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a chip in his mug.

 

“I don’t want this to sound like an accusation or anything, but I think you’ve been more than just down,” Connor says carefully, watching as his son picks at a loose thread on his hoodie, all the while refusing to meet his eyes. “I think it’s a lot more than that, actually. I think you’re depressed, El.” 

 

Eliot stiffens, and Connor can’t hide his frown, though he quickly tries to turn it into more of a soft smile so Eliot doesn’t think he’s frowning at _him_. 

 

He hates that he was right.

 

“I’ve been there. It doesn’t mean you’re a freak or a sissy or anything like that,” Connor reassures him, the pressure in his chest easing a little as Eliot’s shoulders seem to slump with relief. “It just means something in your brain needs a little help to work properly. And that’s okay. I can get you that help.”

 

“Really?” Eliot’s voice sounds hoarse, and Connor’s throat constricts when he realizes his eyes are glimmering with unshed tears. His son doesn’t know how much of an open book he is. 

 

“Yeah,” Connor nods. “Look, your mom and I made you an appointment with a guy named Dr. Sherman. Your mom saw him for a long time; he specializes in teenage patients. I know it’s probably kind of scary to think about, but we just want you to see him a couple of times, okay? Give him a try, and if you really think he’s not helping, then we’ll talk some more. We just want you to feel better, buddy.” Eliot’s face visibly softens at the old nickname, and Connor stands up to give him a hug.

 

He knows he’s done the right thing when he hears his son whisper, “Thank you, Dad”.

 

∞

It takes time, as all things do, but as Eliot’s appointments with Dr. Sherman continue and spring approaches, Connor can tell his son is getting better. He knows there will be bad days, some moments inexplicably harder than others, but the spark has come back into Eliot’s eyes, his passion for life regained, and Connor can’t even begin to explain what a relief that is.

 

Two months after their kitchen table conversation, Connor’s in the car with Evan, driving home from dinner with Alana, Jared, and Zoe. Eliot’s at a friend’s house for the night, it being a Friday, and so Evan’s just a little tipsy (they’ve got Alana to thank for that — she’d brought a bottle of her and Zoe’s favorite red to dinner). Connor’s got her giggling at nothing when his phone starts to ring. Evan jumps at the sudden noise, and Connor squeezes her hand before he presses the “Answer” button on his steering wheel (thank God for modern technology).

 

It’s Dr. Sherman. He shares with them that Eliot’s made wonderful progress since their initial visit, and informs a white-knuckled Connor that their son seems to be responding well to his combination of cognitive therapy and medication. 

 

When they hang up, Connor has to pull over. He’s barely made it to the side of the road, key still dangling in the ignition, when he starts to cry, tears obscuring his vision to the point where Evan’s just a blurry figure before him as she gathers him in her arms and lets him sob against her shirt.

 

“I was so worried,” he manages to get out, stumbling over the words as the lump in his throat continues to grow. “I just — I didn’t want him to be like me, Evan.”

 

“I know,” she murmurs, stroking at his hair like he’s seventeen and breaking down again. “But he’s okay, honey. You got support, even if it took you a while, and look at how you turned out. He’s had support from the start. He’s gonna be just fine, Connor.”

 

She’s slurring her words a bit, but Evan’s nothing if not a truthful drunk, and Connor knows she means every word. He relaxes against her, allowing her to comb her fingers through his curls until both their heartbeats have slowed and he feels fit to drive again. 

 

When they get home, Evan tumbles into bed, Connor helping her to get into her pajamas and take off the majority of her makeup (mascara, he’s learned, is a fucking pain in the ass). Once she’s dozing peacefully, he sneaks off to the living room, retreating to the couch to turn on the TV. He won’t be able to fall asleep in his current state, thoughts of Eliot still racing through his head, so he flicks to the National Geographic channel, confident the millionth rerun of the Planet Earth documentary will help his lids to grow heavy.

 

Before Connor even realizes what he’s doing, he’s pulled out his cell phone, fingers composing a text to his son.

 

** From: Connor Murphy **

** 11:45 PM **

** you doing okay? dont forget ur meds. **

** mom & i love you **

 

** From: Eliot  **

** 11:47 PM **

** yeah dad, i’m good. **

** don’t worry :) hope **

** you guys had fun,  **

** don’t get too drunk. **

** love you too **

 

He’s attached a selfie, Connor’s wild-haired boy and his best friend since kindergarten, Aaron something-or-other, the two of them playing old video games. Connor sighs audibly, sinking into the couch, mind temporarily at peace.

 

Eliot’s okay.

 

And he’ll continue to be okay. 

 

And for now, that’s enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told y'all it wouldn't necessarily be in chronological order, haha! sorry, this idea was one i've had for a long time and i felt a sudden itch to make it happen, so here we are.
> 
> thank you for the love and support <3 sorry if it takes me a while to respond to comments, i've been slammed at work recently. trust me, i read every single one.
> 
> xo,  
> L


	4. four (september 2018)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this pained me to write but it's all good guys i promise
> 
> yay for skipping around in the timeline!!!
> 
> tw: talk of suicidal thoughts
> 
> thank you for the support and love! i love y'all
> 
> xo,  
> L

_four._

september 2018

One  of the unfortunate realities of being a teen mom is that life doesn’t stop for you. All of Evan’s other obligations didn’t slam to a halt the second that Eliot was born, even if her baby had been the only thing she’d felt she really could focus on for a long time. 

 

This means that school is still a very real thing for her. Yes, she and Connor had graduated high school in June, just weeks after Eliot’s birth, but Evan still needs to provide for her family somehow. They can’t live off of Cynthia and Larry’s generosity and parts of Heidi’s paycheck (Evan refuses to take any more than she needs to) forever. She needs to get a _job_. And, in another unfortunate reality, most employers want to see college degrees from their applicants.

 

So here she is, back at the old high school she thought she’d never have to see again, retaking her ACT for the third time in the hopes that this final attempt might raise her score enough to get her some scholarship money at the local community college. Evan doesn’t want to go completely broke trying to get an education.

 

The hours of bookwork and prep with Alana have clearly paid off — Evan comes out of her test three hours later feeling like she might have actually done okay. She lets out a long breath, the tension in her chest dissipating as she walks out of the building and glances up at the bright blue sky. It’s a beautiful day, she thinks to herself. She’s supposed to meet Zoe for celebratory _“Yay-you-did-it!”_ coffee in twenty minutes, but she might be selfish and bail out early, relieve Connor of babysitting duties and take Eliot to the park. 

 

Evan had stowed her phone in her car during the test, since official ACT testing policy dictated electronics couldn’t even be on their person, and she hadn’t wanted to be _that girl_ whose phone decided to randomly go off two hours in. Her eyes widen when it starts to immediately go off the second she turns it on.

 

She’s got twenty texts, five missed calls, and three voicemails from Connor. Zoe and Cynthia have also left texts and voicemails of their own. Evan’s heart sinks.

 

Her fingers shake as she dials Connor, stomach twisting more with every ring of the phone. Connor picks up just before the call goes to voicemail. “Evan?” he says, and she tenses instantly because she can hear the panic in his voice.

 

“What’s wrong?” she stammers out, hand slick around her phone as she struggles not to drop it.

 

“Um, I guess you didn’t read my texts, but — Eliot had an accident.” Connor’s voice breaks, and Evan’s heart skips a beat. “He’s — he’s okay, but I took him to the ER. We just got put in a room, the doctor should be here any second — ”

 

“I’m coming,” she says, and throws her car into drive.

∞

Seeing her son with a tiny cast on his little arm brings back so many memories, Evan’s own left arm tingling at the sight of it, but the memories aren’t pleasant ones, and Evan wants to scream.

 

Instead of screaming, she ends up having a panic attack, and Cynthia decides she should sleep over at the Hansen house tonight to help them take care of Eliot. She takes him home in Evan’s car (Larry had dropped her off at the hospital earlier, Cynthia too much of a nervous wreck to drive), leaving Connor to drive Evan home himself.

 

They sit in his car for the better part of an hour, Evan gulping down water and trying desperately to steady her breathing. She just keeps seeing trees in her head, forty-foot trees and broken arms and pain, and it makes her panic worse because she doesn’t want that for Eliot. Doesn’t want him to _ever_ get hurt.

 

When she’s calmed enough to talk, anger takes the reins, prompting her to spit out, “How did this _happen_ , Connor? He’s a fucking four-month-old, how the hell did he break his arm? We — we could’ve gotten _arrested_ , charged with child neglect or something, the doctor probably thinks we _abuse him_!” Her voice goes high and thin, her hysteria evident, and Connor simply stares at her, eyes wild and face pale.

 

“I don’t know,” he chokes out. “I — I swear I just turned away for a _second_ , Evan, one fucking _second_ to pick up some of his toys, and he just — he just rolled right off the fucking sofa! I didn’t even _know_ he could roll himself over, I thought he was too young, and _shit_ I’m sorry you have no idea how sorry I am —”

 

She softens a bit when she sees how red his eyes are, but then the ugly part of her, that mean little voice inside her head, starts talking. Images of her broken-armed little boy pop into her brain, and in spite of herself, Evan hisses, “Were you high, Connor? Tell me the truth, were you high when you were watching Eliot?”

 

Connor’s eyes flash with raw hurt, and Evan can tell by the way his breath catches at her words that she’s struck a nerve. She wants to apologize, but every apology she can think of gets stuck in her throat, and she’s left just sitting there, waiting for Connor to say something back, to hurt her like she’s hurt him.

 

Instead, after a long beat of silence, he finally just says, “Maybe I should just stay with my dad and Zoe tonight.”

 

And something about that pisses her off, starts her thinking about Eliot and his arm again, and so Evan’s mouth curves downward, heart aching, and she tells him, “Yeah. Maybe you should.” 

 

Connor drops her off at her house.

 

He doesn’t come back for two weeks.

∞

It’s been thirteen days since their breakup, thirteen days of carefully arranged visits to see his son at coffee shops and restaurants and assorted friends’ houses, and Connor is angry.

 

He can’t hold on to the feeling any longer, has to let it out to _someone_ , or he knows he’ll burst and fuck things up even worse. So he tells Zoe.

 

“I’m mad, Zo,” he confesses, voice small and hoarse, the two of them settled on the couch in front of the TV that afternoon. 

 

Zoe shifts next to him, turning to face her brother, and asks gently, “Why?”

 

And Connor’s usually not the ramble-y one — no, long, improvised speeches and streams of words are typically reserved for Evan, while he sits quietly and listens — but he can’t stop the painful truth from flooding past his lips. “Because now that I have Eliot, I can’t be suicidal anymore,” he blurts out. “I have to live for him, even if that’s the most fucking painful thing ever, because I’d rather go through this pain than leave him and know that he’ll go through it. Now, every time things get hard, I can’t just tell myself, ‘Oh, it’s fine, you can just hang yourself when you get home,’ or stop freaking out because I can go buy a gun and end it all if I need to. Because I can’t leave him, and I can’t leave Evan. I don’t have that to turn to anymore, and the past few days have been so fucking hard, and I’m _mad_ , Zoe. Cuz how the fuck am I supposed to deal now?”

 

“Connor,” Zoe whispers, and suddenly his sister is burying her face in his shirt, getting his hoodie wet with her tears, and Connor feels a thousand times more awful because _shit_ , now he’s fucked things up with Evan _and_ upset his sister at that.

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, going to wrap her in a hug, but Zoe pushes him away, and Connor can’t pretend that doesn’t hurt.

 

“ _No_ , dammit,” she snaps, pulling back from him so they can see each other’s faces, “you’re not going to just _hug_ me and act like you never said any of that shit, alright?” Her face is flushed and her cheeks are tearstained, and Connor has to admit, his sister looks really fucking furious. It’d almost be a little scary if he didn’t have a good six inches on her.

 

“You’re going to live, okay? You’re going to _live_ , and not just for Eliot or for Evan, because you’ve got to know by now that they’re not the only people who love you. You’re going to live for me, and Mom, and Dad, even if you sometimes hate us,” Zoe insists, eyes like miniature hurricanes. “And most importantly, you’re going to live for _yourself_. Even if it takes you your entire life to learn how to.” 

 

Connor doesn’t think there’s a sentence in the universe that could even possibly be an adequate response to something like that. So instead, he settles for, “I love you, Zo,” and a long hug. He can tell in the way his sister hums contentedly at his words that she knows he understands. 

 

“I love you too, bro,” Zoe says lightly when they pull apart. Her eyes have calmed, no longer hurricanes, are now something more akin to a gentle sea. “Which is why I think you should have a talk with Evan,” she adds.

 

The _aw-I-love-my-sister_ vibes instantly dissipate. “Why?” Connor manages to get out, a lump forming at the back of his throat.

 

“You’re miserable without her, Connor,” Zoe says, blunt as always. “And you need to have a good relationship with Eliot, at the very least, and you can’t have that if you and his mother are barely on speaking terms. Man up and tell her how shitty she made you feel, apologize for what happened with Eliot, and listen to what she’s got to say. It can’t hurt.”

 

Connor thinks it very much _could_ hurt, but he knows better than to disagree with his sister on this.

 

So he agrees.

 

∞

And that’s how he and Evan end up at one of the local cafés down on Main Street, where his sister worked as a barista for one summer, staring at each other from across the table over steaming porcelain mugs (Evan’s filled with chai tea, since she hates coffee, Connor’s filled with dark roast).

 

“I—I’m glad you called, Connor,” Evan says softly. Connor’s thankful the café is quiet at this time of day, otherwise he’d barely be able to hear her.

 

“Well, I wanted to make things right—”

 

She doesn’t let him finish. “No, _I_ was in the wrong,” Evan tells him, voice gone firm out of nowhere. “It wasn’t your fault that Eliot fell. Accidents happen. And I should’ve never accused you of being high.”

 

“Yeah,” Connor agrees, “if there’s one thing you should know about me by now, it’s that I’d _never_ be high around Eliot. For so many reasons.” He lowers his voice. “I’m still sorry, though,” he says. “But I want this — _us_ — to work. My life without you these past two weeks, it just hasn’t been the same.”

 

Evan chews at her lip. Connor reaches for her hand, and he smiles when she lets their fingers intertwine. Evan stops messing with her lip, and Connor’s glad to see that — she’s been known to make it bleed before doing that. “I’ve missed you so much,” she admits, skin heated and clammy in comparison to the cool dryness of his palm. “I didn’t think you’d want me back.”

 

“Evan, you and Eliot are the two best things in my life,” he says fiercely, making sure their eyes meet so she knows he’s sincere. “Of course I wanted you back.” He pauses, silence filling the space between them for a moment, then continues, “We both just needed time to cool off. But let’s move on from this, alright? We’ll leave it at us both being sorry, we know what we can do better next time, and we’ll keep going.” Connor squeezes Evan’s hand. “I love you.”

 

“I love you, too.” 

 

Connor will never get tired of hearing those words. 


	5. five (october 2032)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is disgustingly angsty at times, so apologies for that, but i would die for eliot and zoe's relationship so there you have it. zoe truly is the Coolest Auntie Ever™
> 
> thank you for all the love. sorry for unloading three slightly-angsty oneshots on you over the past 24 hours haha
> 
> xo,  
> L

_five._

october 2032

When  Eliot comes to, the first thing he’s aware of is the chill in the air. It sweeps across his skin, brings up goosebumps and leaves him shivering. He almost regrets ignoring his mother’s advice to wear a jacket this morning, but nah, the vintage Star Wars T-shirt his uncle Jared had given him is too cool to not show off.

 

The cold helps him realize that he’s in the school freezer, potentially locked in with the five hundred cases of PET milk bottles and frozen chicken nuggets. 

 

That, in turn, leads Eliot to panic. His heart gets clamped in a vise of fear, chest gone tight, breath all shallow and fast. He’s self-aware enough to recognize that he’s having an anxiety attack, and it’s not like this is a regular occurrence for him, but he’s seen it in his mom a couple times before and knows what he needs to do. He tries desperately to remember the exercise that his dad always uses to help his mother.

 

_Five things you see around you_ , his dad’s low, calm voice whispers in his mind. Eliot’s completely sapped of energy for some reason, but he forces his eyes open, manages to lift his head enough to get a good look around the room. A carton of strawberry milk, the color of Pepto-Bismol. A few dented plastic trays, stacked together in a dusty corner. Packets of peas and sliced carrots. His light blue backpack, a worn Jansport he’s owned and loved since sixth grade, stained with splotches of red in a couple places and tossed by the door. A small black iPhone, cracks webbing across the screen, just inches from his feet. 

 

_Four things you can touch._ Eliot raises a shaking hand to his cheek, gently prods at the source of the ache there, winces when pain blooms and spreads throughout his face. He’s definitely going to have to steal some of his mom’s concealer and cover that up come tomorrow. His fingers drift to his nose, a jolt of white-hot agony searing his veins as he touches the bridge of it, and they come away wet and scarlet, which starts up the panic again. _No. Focus. Two more things, Eliot._ He steadies himself and allows his hand to graze against the tear in the right knee of his jeans. He’s a bit sore there, too, but it’s just a scrape, nothing nearly as bad as whatever’s happened to his face. That calms him a bit. Finally, he dares to reach out for the iPhone, turning it over in his palm and slumping a bit when he spots the Ellison State Park case covering the back. Shit. That’s his phone, alright. He’ll probably have to pay for repairs.

 

_Three things you can hear._ That’s an easy one — the quiet humming of the freezer, the buzzing of his phone with texts as he turns it on, the faint crackling of a PA system from somewhere outside the door.

 

_Two things you can smell._ Eliot decides to skip that one — he can’t really smell much of anything at the moment.

 

_One thing you can taste._ The metallic tang of blood is the sole flavor in Eliot’s mouth, and he grimaces. He _hates_ that taste.

 

By the end of the exercise, his breathing has regulated and his heartbeat has slowed considerably, almost to a normal rate. Eliot makes a mental note to thank his parents later and glances at his phone screen. He’s got several texts waiting for him — one from Grandma Cynthia, suggesting they go to a movie this Sunday, a link to some random meme from Jared, a question about the World History homework from his best friend Aaron, and a concerned message from his mom, asking if he’s okay and why he hasn’t called to say he’s home from school yet. Eliot curses under his breath and checks the time. 3:31 PM. School got out over an hour ago. How long has he been passed out in here? And more importantly, how did he get here in the first place?

 

His phone dings with another notification, this one from Snapchat, and something twinges in Eliot’s gut as he goes into the app. It’s a video and a chat message from Sam Harris, a guy in his Honors Bio class, and Eliot doesn’t know why his fingers are trembling as he taps to see the video.

 

Sam’s filming, cheering and whooping from behind the camera, while three other guys Eliot thinks he recognizes take turns punching some kid he can’t quite make out. From what he can tell, Sam’s buddies’ victim has curly hair and is wearing — 

 

Eliot’s blood goes cold. He’s wearing a Star Wars T-shirt.

 

_He’s_ the guy in the video. And, a quick check of his other Snapchat notifications confirms, he’s the guy currently splashed all over the biggest assholes in Rochester’s stories, unconscious and bloody.

 

Memories come flooding back at the discovery. Sam, sneering at him, making fun of his T-shirt, calling him a faggot and questioning the length of his hair. Robbie, the two-hundred-pound quarterback Eliot’s known since preschool, teasing him about his “white-trash teen mom” and urging him to do a little research into his father’s past (Eliot doesn’t know what that means, and, frankly, doesn’t _want_ to know). Derek, the genius already enrolled in AP Chemistry as a freshman, revealing to everyone that Eliot’s needed tutoring in math every year since seventh grade. Mateo, the lacrosse player all the girls love, demanding him to name five things he liked about himself and laughing when he couldn’t.

 

And all of their fists on him, pounding aches into his nose and cheek and head and heart, shoving him, calling him names Eliot will never ever be able to repeat, tears in his eyes they’d endlessly made fun of, and then — 

 

Blackness.

 

And now he’s here. Sore and bloody and probably with something broken.

 

Eliot knows that he can’t go home. He won’t be able to bear the sight of his mother’s tears, the inevitable crack in his father’s voice, the pain that they’ll both instantly transfer onto themselves. They deserve peace, however temporary, and Eliot can’t be the one to take that peace from them, not when he knows how hard they’ve fought to find it. 

 

Thank God it’s a Friday.

 

Aunt Zoe’s place, here he comes.

 

∞

When Zoe Murphy opened the door to her apartment at 4 PM on a Friday afternoon, the last thing she expected to see was a fourteen-year-old kid, bloody and battered and somehow still grinning at her.

 

There he is, though, six feet of brown curls and sad blue eyes that remind her all too much of her brother, and the first thing out of Zoe’s mouth is a garbled curse as she gathers her nephew into her arms and closes the door behind them.

 

“What happened, El?” she whispers into his hair, hugging him as tight as she dares, letting him go and apologizing breathlessly when he starts to wince. Alana will be home in an hour from work — she’ll have a fucking _field day_ with this. 

 

Zoe steps back, looks him over to try and assess the damage as best she can. Eliot’s cheek is severely bruised, shades of blue and violet blooming like ugly flowers across his face, the injury extending up to his temple. That worries her — what if he’s got a concussion? There’s a hole in the right knee of his jeans, and she can see that the skin there is scraped, a few dots of blood having welled to the surface. Scarlet is smeared around his nostrils, the bridge of his nose dark purple around the edges, but it doesn’t look crooked or bent, so Zoe feels confident she can assume it’s not broken. His T-shirt is bloodstained and rumpled, torn at the hem, and Zoe knows that’ll break Eliot’s heart, so she doesn’t say anything about it for the moment. There’s a couple of marks on his arms, assorted tiny bruises and scratches from where she guesses his attackers had grabbed at him to hold him back, and his hands exhibit clear defensive wounds, but — he seems, for the most part, pretty okay. What concerns her most is the potential head injury, that worrisome bruise on his temple and the dried blood in a patch of his curls bothering her more than anything, and Zoe reaches over to grab her car keys from a hook on the wall. She’s taking him to the ER, pronto. She’ll call Evan and Connor on the way over.

 

They’ve known each other for fourteen years now, though, and Eliot can tell what she’s planning the second he sees her reach for the keys. Panic spreads across his features, and he moves in front of the door, lanky frame doing a piss-poor job of blocking it. “Please, Zoe,” he begs, edging on desperation, “don’t take me anywhere. My parents can’t find out.” Her fingers trace the outline of her cell phone in her pocket, and Eliot’s eyes grow to the sizes of dinner plates. “ _Please_ don’t tell my mom,” he pleads, nearing hysteria. Jesus, he really does have his mother’s temperament.

 

Zoe groans at her nephew’s words, because now, of course, she _can’t_ tell Evan. At least not until Eliot’s calmed down a bit and says she can. Because here’s the thing — when Eliot was born, Evan designed a policy, one she’d put in place to, she claimed, protect Eliot’s privacy and keep his trust throughout his childhood. The way it works is, the second Eliot says the words, “Don’t tell Mom,” to her, her parents, Alana, Jared, or _anyone_ in their inner circle, really — the moment those words cross his lips, they’re not allowed to tell Evan. Alana’s tried breaking the rule once before, back when Eliot was six and lost his library card for the third time in as many months, but hellfire had flown into Evan’s eyes at the revelation, and she’d told them all at their next dinner together, _“‘Don’t tell me’ means ‘don’t fucking tell me’, alright?”_ No one’s made another attempt to break with policy since.

 

Technically, Zoe _could_ still keep with the policy and call her brother, but she knows that’d still be violating Eliot’s trust, and he’s fragile enough right now. No, better to just not tell either of his parents.

 

She pinches at the bridge of her nose, an anxious habit she knows she’s learned from Connor, and exhales sharply. “Okay,” she says slowly, “but that means I’m patching you up. And you’re staying here tonight. _And_ , provided that Lana doesn’t have a fucking heart attack when she comes home and sees you like this and we don’t end up in the ER anyway, I’m taking you to MedExpress first thing tomorrow.” Eliot’s mouth opens, preparing to argue, but Zoe adds, “I’ll drag you kicking and screaming, so don’t even try to fight me on this.”

 

Eliot shuts up at that.

 

∞

They end up perched on the edge of Zoe’s bathtub, the only surface she trusts won’t get ruined by the blood still dripping from Eliot’s wounds, her nephew biting his lip till it turns white as she gently presses an ice pack to his nose. “Thank God I keep those around the house for Little League games,” she mutters, standing up to run a washcloth under some warm water. “The ice should help the swelling go down. I don’t think it’s broken, but we’ll get a definite verdict from the doctor tomorrow. You can breathe, right?” Eliot nods. 

 

“Okay, good,” Zoe breathes, shutting off the faucet and turning back to Eliot. She does her best to cleanse the dried blood from his curls, mumbling apologies when she accidentally grazes the sore spot on his head. “You can take a shower after dinner,” she tells him. “I wanna give your nose a bit of time with the ice before you torture it with hot water. I know you like your showers near-boiling.” Eliot laughs at that, and Zoe’s grateful for any sign of happiness she can get. She doesn’t even want to think about the possibility of some asshole kids ruining her nephew’s joy — if she dwells on that for too long, she’ll end up in jail with first-degree murder charges sooner or later, leaving it to poor Alana to bail her out (the perks of having a lawyer girlfriend).

 

Eliot’s hair sufficiently cleaned for now, Zoe switches her focus to his face, carefully wiping at the dried patches of blood underneath his nostrils. Eliot flinches, and Zoe squeezes softly at his shoulder with her free hand. “I know, I’m sorry. But I’ve gotta clean this.”

 

“It’s okay,” Eliot says quietly, not meeting her eyes. He gets like this sometimes, like his father in the sense that he hates to feel vulnerable, and instead of sharing the emotions that can overwhelm him so much, he’ll get guarded, put up a wall. Usually, her nephew’s outlet is his art — he’ll express himself in the grit of charcoal against paper, comes away with blackened hands and a lighter load — but his supplies are back at home, and Zoe figures he’s probably too achey to try to sketch right now anyway.

 

She decides to distract him with conversation, maybe coax the feelings out that way. “So, which kids do I have to beat up for this?” she murmurs, rubbing with her washcloth at a particularly thick spot of blood. 

 

Eliot stiffens. “Does it matter?” 

 

Zoe’s brow furrows. “Of course it matters, Eliot, they beat the _shit_ out of you,” she insists. “You’re not safe as long as they think they can get away with doing this to you. And you deserve to be safe.” Her voice softens when she sees Eliot’s face crumple, eyes shining with unshed tears, and she pulls him in for another hug, the ice pack for his nose cold against her forehead (he’s four inches taller than her, following in his dad’s footsteps already). 

 

Eliot’s a good kid, a sweet, gentle boy with a heart pure enough to rival Evan’s, and he deserves to be happy. He deserves to be safe, and to get an education without feeling like he has to look over his shoulder everywhere he goes. He deserves _better_ than this. And Zoe is suddenly furious, furious with the cruel reality of this world, furious at the knowledge that, no matter how many times she tells him she’s proud of him, no matter Evan’s daily ritual of reassuring him, _“I love you and I’m proud of you,”_ every time he says goodnight, no matter how badly everyone in Eliot’s life wants the entire fucking universe for him, they can’t protect him from this. They can’t always protect him from vicious taunts and even more vicious fists.

 

But they can sure try.

 

And in that moment, Zoe vows to get him justice.

 

∞

Alana arrives home at five o’clock on the dot, shoulders slumped with exhaustion but ponytail still high and eyes ever-bright. Her job at Rochester’s most prestigious law firm is exhausting, Zoe knows this, and she’s acutely aware that the last thing her girlfriend needs to be dealing with after a long week of work is something like this. But Alana loves Eliot, has been a part of their special little family for fourteen years and counting, and she’d want to be involved, would want to be at the forefront of their fight for Eliot’s safety, and so Zoe has no qualms about pulling her aside the moment she walks through the door and spilling everything.

 

Alana is angry, of course, eyes going steely at the news, and Zoe gives her a quick kiss to soothe her before she lets her drift into the bathroom to talk to Eliot. Zoe stays in the kitchen and dials her brother’s number.

 

“Zo? What’s up? You’re with Eliot, right?” Connor answers the phone on the first ring. She can hear Evan giggling in the background and wonders if she’s interrupted something.

 

“Yeah. I was actually calling to tell you that — I didn’t know he’d talked to you guys already,” she says, wandering into the kitchen to search through the fridge for something edible. Nothing’s there, of course, and Zoe huffs exasperatedly, hoping Alana won’t want to kill her for yet another Friday night of Chinese takeout. She promises herself that she’ll treat her girlfriend to a romantic dinner, candles, roses, and all, sometime soon.

 

“Oh, yeah, he texted us.” Connor shifts the phone in some way, and it makes the line crackle in Zoe’s ear. “You sound off,” he accuses, sounding infinitely suspicious. “Is everything okay with Eliot? Him staying with you overnight did seem kind of sudden.” Evan says something in the background, but Zoe can’t make out what it was.

 

“Well — ” She pauses, twists a strand of hair around her finger until it turns white. Maybe she’s more like her nephew than she realizes, she thinks, flashing back to Eliot biting his lip in the bathroom. “I can’t tell you,” she eventually says. “Remember Evan’s policy? The _‘Don’t-tell-Mom’_ one?”

 

“Oh.” Connor lets out a sigh. “Haven’t heard that one in a while. Yeah, I remember.” They’re both silent for a few moments, their synchronized steady breaths the only sound filling the air. “He’s okay, though, right?” Connor asks after a beat.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay. Then that’s okay. Do you think he’ll — ” Connor inhales, and Zoe knows he’s trying to get himself to calm down. “Do you think he’ll tell us, eventually?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

Zoe can sense her brother’s relief through the phone. “Alright,” he says softly. “I won’t worry about it too much, then. I trust you, and I trust him, so — as long as he’s okay, that’s all we can really ask for, I guess.”

 

They talk for a couple more minutes after that, Connor filling her in on a family dinner their mother is planning for next Sunday (Zoe wonders how _he_ keeps learning all of this stuff before her — maybe that’s her punishment for being the Murphy sibling who hasn’t given her a grandchild yet), Zoe telling him all about Alana’s intense new court case, a murder trial that’s already made their local paper’s headlines several times over. They end the call with exchanged “I love you”s, even Evan calling out some form of affection (she’s definitely drunk, Zoe has concluded by now), and Zoe hangs up the phone feeling marginally better. She’s still worried about Eliot, but talking with Connor has helped, a lot.

 

She ends up ordering pizza for the three of them, Alana decidedly sick of Chinese food at this point, and they form a game plan over greasy slices of the Vegetable Lovers’ Special, Eliot picking off the bell peppers and forming a little green pile of them at the edge of his plate. Alana discusses potential legal recourse with him, since Eliot’s revealed to her that the school has known about his bullies for a month now but has yet to take action, though they settle on not pursuing any legal action until Eliot’s parents and Alana have had a firm talk with the principal. Zoe uses an app on her phone to make Eliot an 8AM appointment at their local MedExpress, a watered-down version of the emergency room but unattached to an actual hospital, and promises they’ll stop by IHOP for calorie-laden cupcake pancakes afterwards.

 

And it’s not justice or anything close to it, not yet anyway, but — it’s a start. And when Zoe tucks him into bed that night like he’s four again, gives him a forehead kiss to boot and sees him fall asleep with a peaceful smile, she knows he’s at least some version of happy.

 

And right now, Eliot’s happiness is more important anyway. Will _always_ be more important.

 

So for now, at least, everything’s okay. 


End file.
